


Say It With...

by d8rkmessngr



Category: Donald Strachey Mysteries (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Beginnings, Falling In Love, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-05
Updated: 2014-01-05
Packaged: 2018-01-06 06:52:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1103778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/d8rkmessngr/pseuds/d8rkmessngr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Don always loved to give Tim flowers. There are five that stood out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Say It With...

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was originally meant for the tim_don_athon for the fall 2013. Sadly, this fic was late. (abashed)

_Love is the flower of life, and blossoms unexpectedly and without law, and must be plucked where it is found, and enjoyed for the brief hour of its duration.  
~ D. H. Lawrence_

It was a job Don wouldn't normally take: poking holes at other people's security systems. If he found a flaw, it would be an automatic "Hey, your guy sucked, I'm better, don't you feel stupid now?" That pissed off a lot of people, ruffled feathers (egos), and guaranteed it was the last paycheck he was ever going to get from them. Just for doing his job to prove they were idiots.

If Don didn't found anything, they'd think he was an idiot even as they congratulated themselves for a job well done. And _still_ the last paycheck he'll ever see from these thousand dollar suits.

But his rent was past due (office and home) and the fee for a week's worth of work was too tempting. Plus, he was getting sick and tired of half a ramen for lunch then the rest for dinner. Don wanted to eat food that was actually pork, not pork flavored as those packets claim. He swore he was starting to sweat MSG.

Getting into the senator's office was disturbingly effortless. Lifting the wallet while the pockmarked intern stared at porn in an Internet cafe shouldn't have been that easy. Don shouldn't have been able to use that ID, sneak in and download the senator's itinerary from her Chief Aide's computer when she had left for coffee. He shouldn't have been able to find out it was the senator's anniversary, her favorite color was purple and often got deliveries of fresh flowers from _Roy's_ on Abbot Avenue. And seriously, _purple_ flowers? If Don bothered to vote, he might have had his doubts about this newly appointed Democrat.

Don sailed through the senator's personal office security with a poorly photocopied invoice from _Roy's_ while holding a garish, purple bouquet in front of his face to conceal it. There wasn't even the slightest pause; one guy walked by and made a face at Don's rumpled blazer and jeans attire. But other than that? Nope. Don strolled into the elevator. He even whistled. No one batted an eye.

Shit. Don felt both elated and bummed at the simple job. At least he was getting a decent check out of it, with enough zeroes on it to keep him under a roof for the rest of the year.

Don made a point to saunter by the rows of interns, the general offices, even Glassman's personal office. He hung by the restrooms. He leaned against the wall and listened to the water cooler chitchat about some show he knew nothing about. He wove around the shelves. No one stopped him or wondered who he was. Not good. An F all around.

Job done, Don was about to toss out his perfumed Trojan horse when a pleasant voice called out.

"Excuse me, can I help you?"

Don looked up, ready to note the one vigilant person in his report. He froze.

Dark hair, blue, blue eyes, and—Don shook himself out of his reverie. _Focus, Strachey._

"Sorry. Got lost." Don noted with a mild frown that the guy was blocking the short hallway leading to the senator's office. But he was unarmed. He wore a charcoal suit that skimmed his slim build like a jealous lover. He wasn't a wilting flower either, no lightweight. His shoulders filled the suit nicely, but the guy sure as hell didn't look like he was prepared to fend anyone off if he was suddenly rushed. He kept taking his eyes off Don, looking for the security he must have called. Another failing grade: security should have been here by now.

"Maybe I can help you?" The guy took another step towards Don, deeper into the kill box, a _bad_ move if Don really was trouble. 

Unless the guy thought he could blind the possible intruders with his looks. Christ, the guy was a looker. 

Don caught himself wondering what it would be like to have those long legs around his middle while he repeatedly slammed deep into that trim body of his. Unfortunately, the guy didn't seem like the type to cruise around dollar beer bars, checking out glory holes.

Don cleared his throat to remind his dick this wasn't a dark and dingy dive with dirty bathrooms in the back.

"I was dropping off some papers with..." Crap. He needed a name. "...uh. Sorry. I forget. Oh yeah. The guy in Public Relations...the one with the glasses?"

"Hm. You mean Clint?"

"Yeah. Clint."

"His name is Joel."

Oops.

Don faked a smile but the guy didn't smile back. He looked apprehensive, yet he was still blocking Don's way as if he could use his body as a barricade. Nice thought, but a sure way to get killed. And the guy was too cute to be a corpse.

"Look," Don said, gesturing towards himself with the flowers. "I'm going to take out my ID, okay?" He flipped his wallet open. "Donald Strachey, private investigator. I was hired to test the senator's security."

"Oh." That worried look melted into a sheepish one. "Tim Callahan. Senior aide. Senator Glassman mentioned you." Callahan glanced to his left and right. "I suppose this means we failed?"

"Well, _you_ noticed I didn't belong," Don offered as a consolation. "What gave me away?"

Callahan gave a little shrug. "You seemed to be here for a very long time walking around. And purple is definitely not your color."

Don blinked at the flowers in his hand. Yikes. Callahan had a point. He hefted the flowers and chuckled. 

"Thought they might be a bit much." When Don looked into Callahan's eyes, they were bright and smiling like the guy was glad to see him. Don didn't know what to think about that. So he defaulted to what he did know. He flirted. 

"These would probably look better with you," Don said slyly. He held up the flowers and lined them up with Callahan. "Purple's more your color."

Callahan didn't look offended. He didn't bluster out heterosexual outrage. His eyes widened a fraction then crinkled. "Oh." His cheeks pinked. That shouldn't be adorable. "Thank you?"

Now Don felt like a sleaze and geez that didn't normally happened until _after_ he stumbled out of the bathrooms, ten minutes behind the guy so no one would think they were together. 

Chuckling awkwardly, Don lowered the flowers. 

Callahan fidgeted, appearing just as uncomfortable. Maybe he wasn't used to compliments, though if Don was a better man, he'd wax poetic to Callahan right—No. Wait. What the hell? 

_Poetry?_

"Would you like to present your report to the senator?" Callahan asked. "She's in her office."

"No. I...still have work to do. Good job, by the way." 

"Pardon?" Callahan readjusted his thin spectacles and holy shit, it looked like Don had an eyeglasses kink, too.

"The flowers. Noticing me, I mean. I was trying to be invisible."

Callahan smiled. The area seemed to have brightened around them.

"I can't ever imagine you being invisible. I noticed you right away."

Don gaped at him. Wait, did Callahan just flirted back?

Blinking, Callahan cleared his throat. He looked around, probably wondering why security hadn't shown up yet. Good question. Hell, the things Don was going to say about _that_ in his report. "Yes. Well. It was nice to meet you, Mr. Strachey. Coffee...I was going to get coffee."

"Okay," Don fumbled. "I like coffee." _Smooth, Strachey._

"Me too. Maybe I'll see you around?" 

"Yeah. Sure. Here." Don practically shoved the bouquet to Callahan. "Award. For being the only one who noticed."

Startled, Callahan caught the flowers with both hands. 

"Oh. They're nice." Callahan lifted his eyes, still looking like a startled deer. Don suddenly wanted to climb him and kiss that look away.

Don's mouth went dry. He mumbled, "Okay. Later." He fled. The hand that had held the flowers burned almost as hotly as his face. 

 

_Flowers grow out of dark moments.  
~ Corita Kent _

Don whistled as he got off the bus. Damn car wouldn't start again, but hey, at least this time when he bumped into Tim again, he would be telling the truth that he happened to be "walking by his neighborhood".

Don ran into Tim several times; times of "Oh hey, Callahan. Fancy seeing you here," progressing to "Hi, Tim. Got a minute for a donut/coffee/hot dog/Danish?" 

And so far, Tim hadn't seemed to mind standing by the coffee cart in his nice suit, gingerly sipping coffee that only cost fifty cents. Fortunately, Tim seemed content with the stale buttered rolls, over-brewed coffee and too chewy bagels. If Tim spotted Don go by, he promptly gathered his work and stepped out of whatever coffeehouse or deli he was in to walk with Don to the coffee cart.

Don hurried his step when he sighted the bodega that marked the turn; he was almost there. He brushed a hand over its sidewalk display of sunny yellow daisy tops and wished roses weren't a whopping eighteen dollars a half-dozen. He wanted to give Tim flowers; Tim should get flowers every day.

As he hurried around the bodega, Don halted.

Standing by the dented, silver coffee cart, Tim stood tall, shoulders rigid as he spoke with another man Don didn't recognize.

The other guy was good-looking enough: taller than Tim, with broad shoulders and a haircut that he probably got in a place that required appointments and gave free neck messages.

The watch the guy wore glinted in the meager sunlight an overcast fall sky provided and his suit—Geez—was dark blue, trim and had a hanky that matched his tie and socks.

He looked good next to Callahan. He was the kind of guy, Don supposed, who could take Tim out to coffee in coffeehouses and get roses delivered.

Despite all the window dressing and clearly the bigger wallet, Don noted Tim didn't seem too pleased to see Mr. GQ. Even from across the street, Don could tell Tim was barely keeping his temper in check. It was normally non-existent. Tim had once joked seminary school had trained him in infinite patience. Don thought it just naturally oozed out of Tim's skin like pheromones.

Briefly, Don imagined how hot Tim might look angry but that thought _popped_ the moment the guy grabbed Tim's elbow so hard Tim dropped his coffee cup.

Maybe it was because Tim smiled tightly in response because Don knew he hated to make a scene.

Maybe it was because Don realized it was Tim's ex, Michael; the only name he heard Tim had ever submitted to Security to not let pass. 

Maybe because Don's blood sang "Mine mine mine".

Whatever the reason, Don threw down twenty bucks, grabbed a bunch of roses from the bodega clerk and strode straight for them.

"...told you I'm not interested," Tim said, his voice even and perfectly civil.

"And I told you I don't care," Michael hissed, his grip strong even when Tim tried to shrug him off. "I'm sick and tired of your melodrama. I said I was sorry. You have to make a case out of everything? It was just one night. He wasn't even a good fuck."

"Mr. Callahan," a voice tentatively said from inside the cart. "Okay? I call—"

"Shut up old man, before I sic INS on you," Michael snarled. 

"Michael!" Tim snapped before his voice smoothed out towards the vendor. "No, everything's fine, Jose. We're just—Oh, _Donald_."

Don's stomach flip-flopped at the relief Tim didn't bothered hiding in his voice. Don narrowed his eyes, even though his smile never wavered because if anything, Michael's grip tightened instead of letting go.

"Sorry I'm late," Don said brightly. "Hope this is enough of an apology." He elbowed his way between them, passing Tim the flowers and bumping harder than he should into good old Michael.

"Am I interrupting?" Don bared his teeth. "You must be Michael."

Michael's blue eyes narrowed. "Sorry, I don't believe Tim's ever mentioned you."

"This is Donald and we must be going," Tim said evenly. He tugged at Don's arm.

Don slipped a hand smoothly over Michael's still clamped over Tim's elbow. He bit back a smirk when Michael's eyes widened, his lips pressed thin so he wouldn't cry like a baby because a pinch in that nerve hurts like a _bitch_.

"Nice to meet you," Don said too loudly as he peeled Michael's hand off Tim, pumping it enthusiastically to hide the developing bruise. He didn't bother hiding his grimace when he dropped that hand and turned around to Tim. "Ready?"

Out of the corner of Don's eyes, he saw Michael's nostrils flare white. "I wasn't don—"

"I think you were." Don stepped into the guy's space again. He didn't care if the guy had inches over him and maybe twenty pounds of muscle on him. Don fought in worse odds and survived. He survived finding his lover dead, his career gone being shunned by everyone. He fought dirty and pretty much didn't give a rat's ass if he walked away with bruises.

Michael's eyes flickered over him and read the "I don't give a fuck" in Don's shark-like grin.

An uneasy look twitched across Michael's chiseled features. His eyes flitted to Don, to Tim, back to Don again. He cradled his injured hand.

Wordlessly, Michael took a step back.

"I'll call you," he said stubbornly. Don had to hand it to him, Michael didn't flinch when Don shouldered past him.

"But I won't call back," Tim said firmly, still polite, but not looking at Michael. Arms full of flowers, he walked past Michael with his back straight.

They made it around the bodega before Tim exhaled. He sagged against the building. He smiled at Don ruefully.

"If it wasn't obvious before, that was my ex."

"Shining example of humanity," Don drawled. He studied Tim as he carefully rotated his shoulders back. "You okay?" Maybe he should have punched Michael anyway.

Tim grimaced. "I've been better," he muttered. Tim winced and Don knew that wasn't meant to be heard.

"Don't," Tim warned when he caught the look on Don's face.

Don scowled but it faded when Tim's brow furrowed. He exhaled, relaxed his tightly clenched fists. He glanced over at the roses. His stomach sank. Crap. 

There went coffee and danish for two.

Don rubbed the back of his neck. He gave Tim a rueful look.

"Ah, listen—"

Tim reached out and grasped Don's hand. "I think it's time I buy _you_ coffee, Donald Strachey." He smiled at Don. His eyes drifted to the roses. He pressed his face into the petals briefly.

"I know these weren't for real, but they're lovely just the same."

"They're for real," Don blurted. He shrugged one shoulder. "I mean...if I could, I would get you flowers every day." He chuckled awkwardly. 

Tim blinked at Don, momentarily speechless. He glanced down at the flowers again. His smile gentled. He squeezed Don's fingers.

"My treat? For the roses?" Tim tipped his head towards a deli across the street. 

Don tried to play nonchalant but his insides churned. He savored the feel of Tim's warm hand around his. He wondered how it was possible to want to hold his hand forever after a bunch of cheap coffees. This wasn't an anonymous guy in a bar, this wasn't a bitter fuck in an alley, this was Tim, _Timothy_ , with his nice suits, a soothing voice, and eyes that focused on him like he was the only one in the room. In the goddamn _planet_. 

Don gripped those long tapered fingers tighter. He felt like spinning Tim around when Tim didn't let go as they crossed the street.

And as Don poked through the sugar packets to find the raw sugar ones Tim liked, Tim delicately cleared his throat.

"So...when are you going to ask me out?"

 

_There are always flowers for those who want to see them.  
~ Henri Matisse _

He should cancel.

Don stared in the mirror, dismayed. He was tempted to punch the mirror, not that it would change anything. Then again, if he busted open his knuckles and went to the ER, he'd have to cancel—no, no, no, his medical insurance was still bitching to him about his deductible for the last time. ER was out. No murdering mirrors.

Shit. Why him?

When Mr. Castor came round the office to 'thank' Don for providing his wife photos of him and the not-Mrs. Castor, Don had looked up at the hulking, newly separated husband and quipped they were some of his best work because really, that far away, with shaky hands, telescope lens have trouble with long dis—

And Castor had promptly popped him on the nose.

Son of a bitch.

Don gingerly touched his nose. No concussion. He didn't black out and was lucid enough to thank Castor, call the boys in uniform and file a statement.

An experimental poke at the bridge of his nose made his eyes water. Ouch. All right. Not doing that again.

It might not be broken, but it looked like someone else's nose was glued to his face. It was red, puffy at the tip, purple at the bridge. Christ, he would be better off showing up with a paper bag over his head. 

By the time Don got to the theater, he'd almost convinced himself it would be a good idea to just called Tim and cancel. But damn it, the time it took to get here (while arguing with himself all the way) left him ten minutes. Canceling at ten minutes would make him an even bigger asshole. He'd already canceled twice for a case.

Hiding behind a bouquet of yellow and blue daisies wasn't the best idea he'd ever had, but Don was out of options. 

It was dark by the theater. It was dark _in_ the theater. If Tim thought it was strange Don kept sniffing the flowers and offered to hold them as they went in, he didn't mention it. He greeted Don with a wide smile, his pleasure clear in his voice. It sent a ridiculously loopy sensation to Don's insides like he had too much of the top shelf stuff. It left him lightheaded and grinning goofily at the screen even when one of the main characters unexpectedly died.

When the movie ended, that heady feeling faded and there was that cold lump in his gut again. Dinner was in a retro diner two blocks away. He doubted he could get away with walking there through darkened alleys. And he doubted the diner had a 'nice, romantic corner', preferably with no lights.

"Here, let me get those," Don said hastily when they got up. He grabbed the flowers before Tim could. Not the best camouflage but maybe Tim would think he really liked daisies.

"You know," Tim said pleasantly, not at all fazed that his date just snatched back the flowers he gave him, "I make a very good pasta." He was suddenly fascinated with the silver tie Don always thought looked best on him. "At home, I mean."

Don blanched. "You mean your place?" Whoa, he didn't picture Tim Callahan being that forward.

"I have all the ingredients to make a good carbonara. Bacon, eggs, fettuccine." The corner of Tim's mouth quirked. "A bag of frozen peas?"

Busted. 

Don ruefully lowered the bouquet. Tim chuckled.

"There you are," teased Tim, his smile wider now. It wavered when he reached over and tentatively felt Don's nose. "Ouch. Another satisfied customer?"

"Another satisfied customer's _husband_ ," Don amended. He grinned lopsidedly. "I didn't want to cancel. Again. Look, I'm okay. Let's just go to the diner. Maybe we can get a popcorn tub to put over my head."

"Don't worry about it," Tim assured him. "I think it makes you look very rakish."

Don arched an eyebrow.

"Okay, not really," Tim confessed. He chuckled when Don bopped his shoulder with the bouquet. "But I don't mind. Really. I'm glad you didn't cancel."

"Next time, I'll learn to duck better," Don promised. 

As soon as the words left his mouth, he tensed. Next time?

Tim didn't seem to mind. In fact, he acted like he'd won the lottery. He beamed, and Don felt warm down to his toes.

"Definitely," Tim murmured, "I'm holding you to that."

Don felt the heat from his swollen nose spreading across his face. It was an odd feeling to have when he was sober. "So, dinner?"

Tim nodded, his eyes crinkling. "Does this mean I can have my flowers now?" 

 

 _A flower cannot blossom without sunshine, and man cannot live without love.  
~ Max Muller _

He couldn't even remember what they'd argued about; he had stormed out with only his coat and a couple of bucks. He'd even left his car keys.

Don rolled the loosely wrapped flowers between his hands. The cellophane crinkled noisily and the blossoms inside rustled, shedding a petal or two because they'd sat in the back of the florist's display case all day. And now the thawing flowers (a mix of cheap purple and white daisies Tim favored for some reason) were slowly disintegrating onto the sidewalk in front of Tim's building.

Don was tempted to ring the doorbell, but he'd buzzed it three times already. If Tim were home, he would have answered by now. But nothing. And Don knew Tim wasn't that sound of a sleeper. He always woke Tim up when he climbed into bed, no matter how careful he was, no matter how many times Tim said he would rather know when Don came in.

Don sighed. Hell, it was good while it lasted, and the fact they survived living in Tim's tiny apartment past three months still astounded him. 

Waking up every morning wrapped around a warm body, a _familiar_ body was surprisingly...not hard. And slipping into bed with that same body sober was still as startling as Tim rolling onto his back, blinking sleepy blue eyes at him as if he was so goddamn grateful to be woken up at ass o'clock morning.

Tim always was a bit odd. 

Who else would like cheap, scraggly flowers? And he'd always take a long time watering and rearranging them in the cracked vase they'd kept from Don's old junk. Tim would spray them, trim the stems and clip the dead parts. They were usually just a lousy bunch of three dollar bouquets. But for whatever reason, Tim liked them. Even when business was good, Don got them because Tim asked only for them.

Don had once told him it didn't matter how much care Tim put into the flowers, they were still going to look the same and not any better. Tim said he didn't need anything better. He was perfectly happy with the way it is. He looked right at Don, smiling broadly as he went on to say he just thought it would be nice for the flowers. 

Grimacing, Don absently shook the bouquet and watched another tiny petal flutter to the concrete. 

It was weird. 

Maybe that's it. It was too weird to last. And it had been annoying. Damn annoying. Don was set in his ways and how people fit in his definitions. Tim didn't quite fit any label Don tried to give him. He balked at violence, yet had no problem patching up Don's cuts. He dressed and acted like a million bucks, yet he kept insisting Don's dollar danish and coffee from the cart was fine for breakfast. Tim was almost an alumni from _seminary_ school, yet he seemed to have no problem keeping both God and being gay in his pocket. He was painfully handsome, brilliant, generous...

And yet was with Don.

 _Was_ , Don reminded himself, his throat constricted. _Was_. After that much yelling and door slamming and that disappointed look on Tim's face, it was definitely _was_.

The teardrop shaped petals surrounded him like a ring. He wondered what was considered to be the socially acceptable time to ask for his stuff back. Not that he had much. He barely took up two shelves on Tim's massive bookcase and _no, Tim, the rest wasn't in storage. What's with that face?_

Don paused by the directory next to the front door. No doorman, just a list of names and doorbells next to it. Tim originally had his full name listed on it, something Don had thought was a really bad idea. Why make it easy for bad people (Michael) to find him? Tim had good-naturedly swapped it out for _T. Call_. Tim joked it make him sound like a hip hoppy rapper. Don had snickered and for days had called him "Hoppy" because calling Tim "Bunny" was too gay even if they did screw like rabbits.

The _T. Call_ label was replaced with a new glossy white strip, most likely from the P-Touch labeler Tim kept in his office desk. The label was too tall and it was clear by the crooked cut that Tim tried to trim it with a pair of scissors. It still chopped off 4B's name.

_Tim C & Don S_

Don's eyes burned. He'd been too busy pressing the buzzer to notice before. When did Tim put that up there? Shit, the landlord was going to demand more rent now, even argue to take the small unit out of rent control—

In the reflection of the front door, Don spotted Tim, jaywalking in the middle of the street of all things, hurrying towards him in that scrunched up posture he snapped into every time he did anything faster than a stroll.

"Donald!" Tim flailed a little when he slipped on the new snow—wait, when did it start snowing? 

Don realized there was a light dusting of ice crystals all over. He ducked under the front door's threshold. 

"Hey," Don offered, shivering. "Guess you weren't home."

Tim also had a faint coating of snow, particularly over his spectacles. He squinted through them as best he could (Tim complained he hated contacts) and came off looking slightly deranged—a cute, damp deranged person.

"I-I thought maybe you went back to your office, but the building was locked, so I waited outside and..."

"Wait. My office?" Don frowned. It wasn't the best neighborhood, especially after everyone locked up. He checked Tim up and down. 

"I waited as long as I could, I—"

Don smiled tightly. "It's okay, Timmy." Now that he'd noticed the snow, he couldn't blame Tim for giving up. "It's cold as hell."

Tim nodded as he tucked his hands deep into his brushed wool coat's pockets. "Yes! Absolutely frigid. I thought I'd come back to get my gloves, but I was worried I was going to miss you in-between, and then it started snowing and..."

"What?" Don's eyes snapped to Tim's hands buried deep. Without asking, he tugged one of Tim's hands out. He hissed at the bluish fingertips.

"Maybe I should get those clips to tie my mittens to my sleeves," Tim joked faintly.

"Come on." Don didn't let go of Tim's hand as he dug the keys from Tim's pocket. He practically dragged Tim inside. Tim wordlessly followed.

 

Three warm towels and a brisk hand massage later, Don was satisfied enough to sit back on the couch. Tim flexed his hands, studying them with glasses still fogged from the apartment's heat.

"Better?" Don murmured even though he knew the answer. He felt the heat rising in Tim's hands, fingers once stiff and almost blue now loose, pink and moved with their normal grace. Tim touched everything as gentle as brush strokes. His long, tapered fingers glided across everything including Don's skin like he was painting something better over it. He watched Tim curling and uncurling his hands. He thought of Tim reluctant to get his gloves as he staked out Don's office. He thought of Tim trying to see through frost-covered glasses. He thought of how Tim didn't clean his steamed glasses because he was hiding from Don how much it would have hurt to have his numb fingers try and reach for his spectacles.

"I'm sorry."

Don blinked. He saw Tim's mouth move the same time his did. 

"I shouldn't have pushed." Tim looked miserable. Don hoped his fingers weren't hurting again.

Don smiled (grimaced). "And I should have just listened." He captured one of Tim's hands to check on them again. He tentatively gave it a squeeze. He found it easier to breathe when Tim squeezed back.

"I shouldn't have taken off like that." Don shrugged as the words died in his throat. How could he explain sticking around never felt like the better option?

"I don't know what hurt you before," Tim murmured, dead serious. "But please believe me that I..." He lowered his eyes. He reached over and sandwiched Don's hand before he could tug it free. "Please believe I would never..."

Don smiled tightly. He looked at his hand, covered, protected by both of Tim's when minutes before they were too stiff to pull out the right key. He sucked in his breath. It rattled in his chest as he tentatively reached out his other hand and covered Tim's.

"I believe you," Don croaked.

Tim's eyes crinkled. "No, you don't."

"But I will." Don's face cracked as he lifted his eyes to him. "I'm a slow learner, though."

Tim pressed his hands, bracing Don's. He pulled Don's hands to his mouth and carefully kissed each knuckle.

"When you left, I thought I asked for too much, too soon. Don, I..."

"I went for a walk," Don offered quietly. "Then I went to get some—aw crap!" He dropped his head with a groan. "Your flowers."

"What?"

Don sheepishly retrieved the bouquet he'd thrown onto the couch when they came in. At the time, he was focused on finding towels and not where the flowers had landed.

There were some blossoms that survived the neglect of the florist, Don's abuse, the snow, and ultimately being crushed between Don's ass and the couch. Their blue and yellow heads bent forward in kowtow, their stalks slightly bowed. The rest were a sorry bunch of beheaded...green things.

"Thank you?" Tim sounded like when they first met, accepting the questionable bundle with a look that was a cross between "Oh, how nice" and "Huh?"

"I think the rest are on the street," offered Don. He laughed awkwardly. "There wasn't much of a choice by the time I got there." 

"I am sorry. For walking out on you like that. For the argument. For..." Don exhaled. "For a whole lot of things." Don poked at his seat cushion. "We're going to be okay?" He wished it hadn't sound so small, so—fuck, he never should have said it. "You know what? We're gonna be—"

"We're gonna be great," Tim said. He settled the bouquet of battered flowers and warped stems on his lap. 

Don broke out into a broad grin. "Yeah?"

Tim gripped his hands tight, as if afraid Don would leave again.

Don held Tim's just as tight, if not tighter. _Never_.

"So..." Tim drew the word out, his eyes peering over the top of his glasses. He blinked when Don plucked them off his face and began to clean them with a handkerchief. "Our first big fight."

Don scrutinized the lens. Was that a fingerprint? "Our first fight," Don murmured. "Yup."

"So..." Tim leaned forward to Don, his voice dropping lower.

"When does the makeup sex begin?"

Don paused. He didn't look up as he wiped the edges clean. He folded the eyewear, wrapped it with the linen. He whistled, biting a smirk as he could feel Tim vibrating next to him as he carefully placed the glasses on the coffee table.

" _Oh_ , I would say right about...now." 

Don pounced.

 

Sometime later, Don muzzily debated the benefits of a bed versus staying on the carpet and sliding back into a loose limbed, sleepy Tim. Head on his chest, Tim stirred, along with other parts of his anatomy. _Christ_ , Tim might be contemplating round three—or was that four? _Five?_

"Don?" Tim yawned as he lazily lapped his tongue around Don's right nipple.

"Uh huh?" Don managed as he shivered. So this was what a Dove bar felt like with all those licks and— _holy shit_ —teeth and— _oh yeah, right there_ , _pleasepleaseplease_. He reverted to puberty as his voice cracked. "Y-yeah?"

Even in the dark, Don thought he could see Tim's smile. "Does this mean the fight's over?"

"Oh gee, I dunno. I'm still feeling pretty sore. Probably not as sore as you but I think we really need to have a sit down and talk it out..." Don babbled as Tim descended on him. "Or we could have a lie down an— _mmph_!"

Tim was right.

They were gonna be fucking _great_.

 

_If I had a single flower for every time I think about you, I could walk forever in my garden.  
~ Claudia Ghandi_

Tim's body clenched around his cock as Don thrust, responding in time with each stroke, legs bracketing Don twitching and flexing.

Don dug thumbs into the bony jut of his pelvis, giving him the leverage he needed to slam up into Timothy, _his_ Timothy. Over and over, deeper, with a possessive force that made his knees ache. But he couldn't stop, still caught in the _mine, mine, mine_ mantra that took over.

There were petals all over the covers, roses crushed when their bodies tumbled into the bed, upturning the complimentary champagne bottle and the little mints Housekeeping left on their pillows.

Tim's hands scrabbled for Don's wrists; it was the reason why Tim rolled onto his back instead. Because Tim needed to see him. Tim needed to watch Don watch his own cock claiming Tim's body over and over.

Don could feel Tim watching the top of his head. He couldn't meet Tim's gaze. He was riveted watching his engorged cock disappearing into Tim's body, sweat trickling down his thighs to gather under the sacs drawn tight to Tim's body.

A stray velvety petal was stuck on Tim's navel. He could feel another clinging to his left butt cheek. Don snatched one of the surviving roses by Tim's head, reaching for it after one hard stroke arched Tim's back off the mattress.

There was a garbled cry, choked off when Don trailed the tip of the rose along the rim of Tim's hole, along the point where their bodies joined. He moved to ring Tim's purpling cock at the base, delaying what they both wanted so he could stroke the soft blossom along the throbbing vein under Tim's cock.

" _Don!_ "

"Hold on, sweetheart," Don murmured as he twirled the rose at the slit, swirling into the bead of precum until the petals glistened with something other than the glitter the florist had sprayed on the two dozen roses before delivery.

Tim babbled, fingers now grabbing uselessly for Don as he threw his head back. Crushed roses sent up more perfume. Before, Don had teased that was so cliché, so nauseatingly, bodice-ripping cliché. Tim told him it wasn't Fabio's cock he want in him, though and Don devoured that filthy mouth. He tried to do a little bodice ripping of his own. 

He managed the tie. Tim somehow managed Don's _trousers_ with his _teeth_.

Clever, filthy, _beautiful_ mouth.

"Don, please. I..."

"Just a little more," Don coaxed as he trailed the rose up the length of Tim's cock, down his perineum, lingering as he drew tiny damp circles on that sensitive patch of skin.

Don leaned in and swallowed Tim's scream as he cried out. He came over Don's loosened fist. Their bodies crushed the last remaining rose. Thank God Don had ordered them dethorned. 

Tim shivered, lost in his orgasm, sending vibrations down Don's cock. He greedily thrust into the sensation, pressing in as close as possible. He curled an arm under Tim's leg, drew it flush against him as he rode out Tim's pleasure. A few thrusts later, Don came as well, his vision whiting out behind his eyes.

There was an airless moan when Don slipped out of Tim's body. Don knew how Tim felt. He wanted to stay joined, he wanted to feel himself hardening inside Tim's warm body. He wanted to see the flush return on Tim's cheeks as he filled and stretched Tim with his cock.

Don kissed Tim's damp forehead, apologizing that he couldn't do what they both wanted and thanking him for everything they did do. 

"Mm," Tim murmured. His lashes looked ridiculously long this close. When they opened, Don's reflection shone in his eyes. He looked at Don like he was a revelation. Don supposed that was only fair. Tim was his revelation every single day. 

"If this is what you planned for this year, I can hardly wait for year five."

Don couldn't speak around the lump in his throat. Five? He was already planning for year _twenty_. He pressed closer to Tim, lining up their bodies. Not for sex (later, sex definitely later) but so their hearts were close, their chests expanding against each other. He could feel their breathing falling in sync. If someone had told him their heartbeats were doing the same, he wouldn't have been surprised. 

Tim tapped his face with a rose. "Where did you go?" 

"Why would I want to go anywhere?" Don gave Tim his best leer. "I kinda like it here." He wiggled just enough for Tim to feel his cock brushing his bare flank.

"You better." Tim poked him with the rose again. "You're stuck with me."

Don's eyebrows went up and down. He looked meaningfully at their stomachs, at the drying stripes of cum Tim painted them both with.

"I could always get a towel." Don pretended to get up. He barked out a laugh when Tim growled unexpectedly and tugged him back in. He dropped his face over Tim's shoulder. He breathed deep: salty sweat, musky sex, Tim's spicy aftershave and the underlying hint of Tim, uniquely Tim. 

Don tenderly kissed Tim's shoulder. Then his collarbone. Then under his jaw. 

"Happy anniversary, Timothy," Don murmured as he drew up to Tim's mouth. He propped himself up on an elbow. He gazed down the length of their bodies, flushed against each other, fitting together like they belonged that way. He lifted up a half-curled hand and let the back of it glide down the side of Tim's face. 

Tim stared up at him with those same smiling eyes, glad to see him and only him, unchanged, since they exchanged rings last year, since they first met.

Tim captured Don's hand before it pulled away. He took care to kiss each knuckle, then the ring Don never took off. Tim exhaled over the golden band and wiped it clean with the tip of a rose. His eyes met Don's.

"Thank you for the flowers."

**Author's Note:**

> My beta is humble and would like to stay anonymous. Regardless, I would still like to sing my beta's praises. I learned so much.


End file.
